


lay my bones in the ground

by cv_angels



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Canon-Typical Violence, Courfeyrac POV, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Mutual Pining, Revolution, like i guess?? people get shot in canon so, one minor panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cv_angels/pseuds/cv_angels
Summary: Courfeyrac has just pulled himself up and swung around to help Combeferre when he sees it. Painted on the side of the Arc de Triomphe is a hundred-foot-tall mural done only in shades of red and black. There are people milling about around it, workers clearly in the process of cleaning it as quickly as possible, but Courfeyrac can still make out cannons and smoke and the Citadel at Versailles, the information hub of the city, falling. The wordriseis painted over and over in the image, a call to action.For two hundred years, Paris has stood as a walled city-state, ruled with an iron fist by a Monarch who cares only for keeping order. Les Amis are a group of young people dedicated to freeing the city, whatever the cost.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	lay my bones in the ground

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for the Les Mis Quarantine Big Bang! It was a ton of fun, and I loved working with everyone!  
>   
> Special Shoutout and Huge Thanks to:  
> My beta, [Jett](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/)  
> and  
> My partners, [James](https://stopcallingmeapollo.tumblr.com/) and [J](https://wittlenell.tumblr.com/), who did the a m a z i n g cosplays embedded in the fic!  
>   
> Title from "Thus Always to Tyrants" by the Oh Hellos

Courfeyrac is running late. He hadn’t meant to be, had even left his apartment with plenty of time to spare. He’d been fine until he reached the Place de la Concorde, which had been crawling with so-called peace officers. Armed, no doubt, as they were always armed, and Courfeyrac had really not been interested in being stopped or questioned and taking more time, or getting arrested, or getting _shot_ , which are all possibilities when dealing with the officers. So Courfeyrac took the long way around the square and is now running late. He’s sure Combeferre will forgive him – he always does.

The Café Musian is nearly empty as Courfeyrac pushes his way inside. It’s still early enough that the morning rush hasn’t yet arrived. The door lets out a faint trill, beeping twice in time with the blinking light of the steel circlet on his wrist, indicating to a database somewhere that he’s entered the establishment. There is a man scrolling through a tablet by the window, but the café is otherwise empty save for Musichetta. She looks up from where she’s taking inventory and waves, pushing a steaming cup across the counter.

“Musichetta,” Courfeyrac says dreamily as he sweeps across the room and curls a hand around the drink. “You truly are an angel among us mortals. What would I do without you?”

“Find somewhere else to get coffee,” Musichetta deadpans.

Courfeyrac gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I would _never_.”

“Of course not,” Musichetta hums in amusement, moving to the counter to scan Courfeyrac’s wristband and charge him for his vanilla latte. The wristband blinks green, a satisfactorily processed payment. “Nice shirt, by the way.”

“Thanks!” Courfeyrac beams. “Jehan made it for me.”

The shirt in question is slate grey, the same color as the regulation attire required by the Monarch. Silver threads swirl their way across the fabric, looping into delicate flowers and small birds. It is a deliberate violation of conformity, but from far away, half hidden behind Courfeyrac’s jacket, it gives the officers no reason to stop him.

“Don’t let the Inspector see it,” Musichetta replies.

“Chetta,” Courfeyrac drawls with a wink, “It’s way more fun if the Inspector sees.”

Musichetta snorts and rolls her eyes, gathering up some pastry samples on a plate and moving toward the man at the window. She angles her body as she goes, effectively blocking Courfeyrac from the view of the man and the camera that points out into the café. Courfeyrac takes that as his cue to make his way to the back room where he knows Combeferre is waiting.

The Café Musain has served as a meeting place for their ragtag group of freedom fighters for nearly two years. Musichetta had been disgruntled with the situation within the walls of Paris for years, but it wasn’t until she met Bossuet, and then Joly, and then Enjolras and the rest of Les Amis that she was willing to act. The café, like every other building in Paris, has cameras and audio recording in every room, but a gradual shifting of storage boxes and a careful angling of the gentle acoustic music filtering through the speakers in the shop result in a space with no eyes watching or ears listening.

Courfeyrac glances back, ensures that the man is still occupied with Musichetta, and raps on the door, three quick knocks, before pushing it open quietly and slipping inside. The back room is a cluttered mess. Papers and notes and pamphlets are stacked on every available surface, clear evidence of the hours spent planning and talking and pontificating late into the evening. They're all encoded in some way - Les Amis have created a cipher with which they're all familiar. With routine inspections of businesses, who would suspect a coffee shop with a map of delivery routes, a few recipe books, and some notes on customer preferences? That's just good business practice.

Amidst the chaos sits Combeferre, head down, taking notes on a piece of scrap paper as his coffee grows colder and colder by the minute. He glances up as the door opens, flashing a smile at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac has known Combeferre for a long time, been friends with him since they both got detention in primary school for challenging a teacher. He _knows_ Combeferre, by now, and that includes the language etched into his expressions, and Courfeyrac knows that Combeferre has a number of smiles. The thin quirk at the corners of his mouth that spells exhaustion, the wide grin that reads excitement, the thin, polite press of his lips that doesn't reach his eyes that means if Combeferre were just a touch less restrained, he'd tell you exactly what he thinks of you. This smile, the sharp flash of teeth and bright eyes as Combeferre looks up from the table at Courfeyrac, this smile says _triumph_.

"That good, huh?" Courfeyrac says as he slides into a seat, bringing his coffee cup to his lips to hide his answering grin.

"Better."

A small glint of silver flashes in Combeferre's hand. He gestures to Courfeyrac's wristband and Courfeyrac holds out his arm, obliging. Combeferre gently turns Courfeyrac's wrist, exposing the dormant beacon. He pauses, thumb held over Courfeyrac's pulse as he glances up, studying Courfeyrac.

After a few moments, Courfeyrac cracks. "The anticipation is killing me, Combeferre."

Combeferre is silent for a beat longer, his eyes dark and serious as they sweep over Courfeyrac's face. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course." Courfeyrac means for it to come out friendly, or cheerful, or even a touch sarcastic, but instead it's just painfully earnest.

Combeferre smiles at him again, this time a gentle curl of his lips and softening of his eyes that they both know means _I love you_ even if neither of them will say it out loud. God, Courfeyrac wants to kiss him.

The flash of silver in Combeferre’s hand is a small, tapered tool with six points. “Feuilly managed to get his hands on this during his shift. Seems like the Monarch has decided to roll out a new upgrade to the bands, so even Feuilly’s plant has been working on them.”

Courfeyrac lets out a low whistle. “We’ve got to get moving then. Who knows what other personal freedoms he’s decided we could do without?”

“Exactly,” Combeferre says. As Courfeyrac watches, the tool clicks into a small port on the side of his wristband and the light flashes yellow, a warning. With deft hands, Combeferre flips open a small hatch and inserts a small circuit board. The light blinks out as he twists the tool, and Courfeyrac’s wristband clatters onto the table.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, staring in turn at his wrist, the band, and Combeferre. “Oh my _god_.”

“Once we figured out how to get them open, we realized the biometric scanner would know as soon as it was no longer detecting a pulse. Joly and I spent the last two days figuring out how to code believable vitals. The band is still detecting a heartbeat and temperature, so it won’t alert anyone of your untimely demise.”

While Combeferre is speaking, Courferyrac pushes himself away from the table. The band stays silent, even as he steps away, even as he crosses to the other side of the room. It doesn’t know it’s been removed, doesn’t know Courfeyrac’s movements, his exact position in the city. Can’t feel how his heart is threatening to pound its way out of his chest.

Combeferre’s explanation has ended by the time Courfeyrac’s pacing circles back, a knowing grin stretched across his face. “It really is something, isn’t it?”

Without warning, Courfeyrac pulls Combeferre out of his seat and into a tight embrace. “Combeferre, you brilliant man,” he says, “this is _amazing_ . More than amazing, _fuck_ . This is _it_.”

“This is it,” Combeferre echoes. “They won’t know we’re in the citadel until it’s too late.”

“They won’t know we’re anywhere ever again.” Courfeyrac unwinds himself from Combeferre. “Take yours off too; we’re going out.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Courfeyrac knows that this isn’t, perhaps, the smartest thing to do with his newfound freedom, and he knows Combeferre knows that too, but he’s glad Combeferre won’t begrudge him this. There is a thrumming in his veins and he’s itching to go somewhere, do something. Wreak a little havoc in the name of revolution. Courfeyrac feels _alive_.

Courfeyrac grabs a cookbook with a stack of flyers tucked away inside and pulls Combeferre along behind him, peeking out the door. The man at the window has since left, and Musichetta has returned to detailing her inventory.

“We’ll be back,” Courfeyrac says, breezing past. Musichetta calls a distracted _stay safe_ , and then they’re out the door and ducking into the alley next to the Musain.

“Where to?” Combeferre asks. He still hasn’t let go of Courfeyrac’s hand.

“Everywhere,” Courfeyrac replies. “Anywhere without a camera. Think of how much ground we can cover if we don’t have to double back and blend into crowds to confuse the GPS.”

Combeferre considers this, and a slow grin spreads across his face. There’s deliberation there, a thorough mapping of the city streets behind his eyes. “We should be able to hit the entire west side. If we start in the sixteenth arrondissement, we can loop through the fifteenth and seventh and be back before the work rush at nine. We just have to avoid the eighth.”

“I noticed,” Courfeyrac says as they set off. “Way more officers than usual over in Concorde. Wonder what Lamarque did this time.”

It doesn’t take long for them to discover what, exactly Lamarque has done this time. Lamarque, a self-proclaimed revolutionary, has been acting out against the Monarch for years, creating spectacles of anti-establishment with finesse. Even acting alone, he has somehow managed to avoid detection, constantly infuriating Inspector Javert. Courfeyrac doesn’t know the man’s real name, has to assume that acting under the name of a prominent historical anti-royalist is intentional, but he has long been a source of inspiration for Les Amis. Enjolras admires his passion and dedication; Combeferre holds a deep respect for his tactics. Courfeyrac agrees, of course, but what draws him to the man is his flair for the dramatic.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre wind their way through alleys, using gloved hands to avoid errant fingerprints while plastering flyers in nooks and corners out of view of the cameras that sweep the streets. They tuck the sheets back into the book and nod politely when their paths cross with someone on an early commute to work. The flyers are loud declarations of revolution, eye-catching and bold. There are no identifying markers, no way to trace the act back to any of them, but the intention is there – to put ideas into people’s heads, to convince them that the Monarch’s power should not be absolute, that the Wall that pens the inhabitants inside the city should fall. _Freedom_ , Enjolras had asked for, and Grantaire delivered. The flyers cry for freedom.

Soon enough, Courfeyrac finds his hands empty, all the flyers having been distributed. They’re still early, so he wheedles Combeferre into climbing up a fire escape to sit on the roof of an apartment complex, where the wind is blowing hard enough that their voices won’t be heard by anyone but the two of them. He’s just pulled himself up and swung around to help Combeferre when he sees it. Painted on the side of the Arc de Triomphe is a hundred-foot-tall mural done only in shades of red and black. There are people milling about around it, workers clearly in the process of cleaning it as quickly as possible, but Courfeyrac can still make out cannons and smoke and the Citadel at Versailles, the information hub of the city, falling. The word _rise_ is painted over and over in the image, a call to action.

“I guess we know why there are so many officers over there today,” Combeferre says with no small measure of awe.

“God, I wish we were that good,” Courfeyrac breathes.

Combeferre nudges him as he moves to sit on the edge of the rooftop, tapping Courfeyrac’s empty wrist as he passes. “We will be. We’re making a difference, Courfeyrac. And I think people are starting to take notice.”

“They’ll notice when we blow a fucking hole in the Wall.” Courfeyrac grins and settles next to Combeferre, close enough to feel his answering laugh.

* * *

The Wall has stood for nearly two hundred years, surrounding Paris, Versailles, and Pontoise. It was built during a period of civil war in France, a violent disagreement over leadership and liberties, that resulted in the secession of the three areas into their own self-sustaining city-state. Tired of fighting, the rest of the country allowed it. In the first few years, rioting citizens attempted to break through the Wall and tear down Versailles, the new center of operations, but the head of state, the original Monarch, was swift to act. Opposition to his rule was dealt with accordingly. Insurgents were slaughtered, freedoms stripped, and the Wall was electrified in a twenty foot field – it nullified all explosives and attempting to touch it or break it or destroy it would result in a painful death.

When Courfeyrac first met Enjolras as a teenager, he had already been vocally opposed to the Wall. Courfeyrac would watch in awe as he’d speak out in their classes, again and again, earning detention after detention. The school hesitated to enact the harsher punishments on their students, but when they were driven to corporal punishment, Combeferre pulled Enjolras aside and told him that, perhaps, there was a better way to conduct a revolution. The three of them schemed and planned and plotted, recruiting trusted friends until they had a little ragtag group willing to fight against the Monarch and the institutions that govern Paris.

The trouble, of course, is that Les Amis are no longer protected by the thin veneer of childhood. They are old enough to garner real consequences for their actions, and a dead revolutionary may be a martyr, but Paris has seen enough martyrs. Martyrs don’t infiltrate the citadel. Martyrs don’t open the borders.

When Courfeyrac arrives at the rally that evening, Enjolras is already there, speaking to Valjean about logistics. Though Les Amis hold their meetings in the Musain, any public gathering – speeches, rallies, organizations – are held in Valjean’s house. After he had been released from prison for a petty crime, Valjean spent a few years digging and pouring concrete in the dead of night to create a basement beneath his home. The thick concrete walls confuse the GPS signals in the wristbands, and those that are allowed in are sworn to secrecy on pain of death. Not that any of the attendees have said anything thus far, and Courfeyrac isn’t sure he is personally prepared to kill any of the other unfortunates who dwell in the city, but Valjean is intimidating enough to convey the message. Marius certainly seems to think so, but that’s probably because he’s courting Valjean’s daughter, Cosette.

Courfeyrac crosses the room, attracting a wave from Enjolras as he continues his conversation. Courfeyrac begins setting out informational pamphlets, different than the flyers causing a stir on the west side of Paris. Courfeyrac had watched a number of people stop to read them as he and Combeferre sat on the roof, but had left before the peace officers could be alerted. They’d returned to the Musain and donned their wristbands once more, parting ways for the day – Courfeyrac to spread the word of tonight’s rally, and Combeferre to meet with the remaining Amis about the wristbands.

“Nice shirt.” Courfeyrac startles slightly and turns to see Grantaire smirking at him, echoing Musichetta’s earlier words. Courfeyrac has changed, of course, and the shirt he is wearing now is _loud_. He’d painted it a few weeks ago with bartered pigments – splashes of red and blue and yellow and green overlapping until none of the base color is visible. Where the day’s shirt had been an understated act of defiance, this shirt is an open riot.

“Gotta give the people something to look at,” Courfeyrac says with a wink.

Grantaire huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes. “They’ll be looking, no question. Christ, Courfeyrac, it’s hurting my eyes.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac says with a shrug. “You’re early tonight,” he notes.

Grantaire shrugs, bringing a bottle to his lips. The contents smell vaguely like paint thinner, but Courfeyrac isn’t one to judge. They all have their vices, and if Grantaire’s happens to be drinking the strongest liquor he can trade for, that’s his own prerogative. It is, in its own way, an act of rebellion. Alcohol has been illegal for years, and the only way to get it is through black market trading from people who have distilled it in their closets, trading for extra blankets, or a good time, or a few small paintings and sketches that make them feel alive.

“I heard this one was important,” Grantaire says quietly, his eyes trained on Enjolras, who has begun to circulate through the rest of the assembled Amis. The naked longing in his gaze is painful. Courfeyrac almost groans aloud.

“Just thinking out loud here,” Courfeyrac says, casting a sidelong glance at Grantaire. “But you _could_ tell him how you feel.”

The laugh Grantaire barks out is sharp and brittle. “Yeah, I’m sure I could,” he bites. “Just like you could tell Combeferre you’ve been in love with him for years.”

Courfeyrac can feel his face heating, and he knows the blush is visible even in the dim light of the basement. “That’s not – we weren’t talking about me!” he splutters.

Grantaire snorts and claps him on the back. “And now we aren’t talking about me either. Our fearless leader approaches; I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

Grantaire disappears from Courfeyrac’s side, no doubt settling in at the table in the back corner that has become his over the years. When Courfeyrac turns to face Enjolras, he notices for the first time that a number of people are milling around, many of whom he’d spoken to earlier in the day. It is still a small group, maybe twenty or thirty people. With their only advertising being discrete word of mouth, Enjolras usually speaks to only a handful. The posters, combined with Lamarque’s statement, must have served as some sort of draw.

“He made it,” Enjolras notes, nodding after Grantaire’s retreating back.

“He didn’t want to miss it,” Courfeyrac says. “He knows it’s important to you.”

And oh, Grantaire would kill him for telling that to Enjolras, but a pleased smile curls across Enjolras’ face and a touch of pink dusts his cheeks. Enjolras stares for a moment after Grantaire before returning his focus to Courfeyrac.

“We ready?” Courfeyrac asks.

Enjolras nods. “There are still a few stragglers at the door speaking to Bahorel and Eponine, but it seems that people are finally ready to listen. Joly and Bossuet have been handing out the microcoms. Something is starting, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac can’t help but grin. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting.”

Courfeyrac makes his way onto the makeshift stage. It’s more of a platform, really, with a few bright lamps shining up on it. He waves, catching the attention of those assembled. They turn to look at him, a sea of faces, and the hope that has taken up residence in Courfeyrac’s chest since he met Enjolras and Combeferre flairs bright. These are the faces of the revolution. These are the faces of a free Paris. Courfeyrac beams at the crowd as he introduces Enjolras, who steps up onto the stage in his place.

When Enjolras speaks, it’s like an inferno. The cheap lamps illuminate the gold of his hair and the crimson of his jacket, and his words swell like tongues of flame. His speech starts as they usually do – talking of the idea of revolution, the liberties that the people of Paris deserve. He talks of the corrupt Monarch and the fear mongering of the peace officers, and he talks of the lack of self-expression. However, as Grantaire mentioned, this speech is an important one. With Combeferre and Joly’s work on the wristbands, Les Amis finally have the chance to act. Their years of talk can become reality.

“We the people can rise,” Enjolras commands. “We _must_ rise. And for us to rise, the citadel must fall. The Wall must fall. We have been given an opportunity to see our freedoms realized. We will no longer be hidden away behind closed doors. The Monarch will see us and know that we will not live in fear.

“What you have in your hands is a microcommunicator. Nearly indistinguishable from your regulation watch, this will enable us to contact you when our plan is set in motion. When the moment comes, you will be contacted, and you must rise. Flood the streets, engage the officers, wreak havoc. Freedom comes with a price – you must be willing to fight for it.”

Enjolras raises a fist into the air. “Now is our time,” he yells. “Long live the revolution!”

As the echo of Enjolras’ voice fades, murmurs sweep the room along with scattered applause. There is a current of apprehension in the room, but these people are _here_ and they’re _talking_ , and that has to count for something. There is a real, tangible chance that actual freedom lies somewhere in the near future, Courfeyrac can feel it. Their audience trickles out, some people stopping to ask a few questions, others leaving in quiet contemplation.

Soon, it’s just them. Courfeyrac knows he’s grinning like a madman, but he can see that same grin stretched across the faces of his friends. Cosette has thrown herself into Marius’ arms. Eponine’s fourteen-year-old brother, Gavroche, has scrambled onto Bahorel’s back, and he laughs brightly as Bahorel circles the room. Feuilly and Jehan are leaning against the wall and talking animatedly. Even Grantaire, who has been joined at his table by Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, has a smile softening his face. Courfeyrac is positively giddy as he makes his way over to Enjolras and Combeferre. Enjolras is right – something is starting.

* * *

After the speech, they begin planning in earnest. With the Monarch making strides to upgrade the bands, the likelihood of their tampering being discovered during the updates is too high for comfort. If they are going to act at all, they have to act soon.

In the following days, the small acts of protest ramp up. In the wake of the flyers, new cameras are installed in alleys and side streets, but they know how to spot them, and how to avoid them. Enjolras asks Grantaire to create new pamphlets and Grantaire delivers. Words of revolution, lists of demands and reasons to revolt. The papers are shoved under doors and plastered in the even slimmer areas between camera sights. Regulation clothing is deliberately discarded in favor of Jehan’s creations. They wear the microcom watches and fashion silver circlets that bear an approximate resemblance to the wristbands. The actual wristbands are left in their own apartments, or in the Musain, only being worn when they leave for work or to make transactions. 

They’re in Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment, maps tacked up on the wall. Feuilly had managed to swipe blueprints of the citadel while doing routine maintenance, so they’re planning their routes through the building. Once they get in, using reprogrammed wristbands to fool the security scanners, they plan to disable the entire system, taking down the GPS, the city-wide surveillance, and the Wall’s electric field. Bahorel talks through one potential path, and Enjolras hums thoughtfully before proposing an alternate. Courfeyrac is perched on the sofa next to Grantaire, who is watching the proceedings with a bottle in his hands. Enjolras points to another cluster of doors that even Courfeyrac can see is a risky choice, and Grantaire seems to snap.

“This is suicide,” he cuts in loudly.

Enjolras’ head whips around, eyes narrowed. “Care to elaborate, Grantaire?”

“Yeah, actually,” Grantaire says, taking a swig of his drink before pushing the bottle onto the table and standing. “We’re going to get caught immediately, and that’s if we even make it to the citadel. Are we going to just waltz in wearing our regulation civilian outfits that look nothing like the citadel uniforms? How are we planning to talk to each other? And are we walking _twenty miles_ to the citadel? And even if all that works, how the hell are you going to get through the Wall?”

“If you paid any attention at all,” Enjolras bites, “you’d know we’re working on all of that.”

“Sure,” Grantaire agrees, a mocking edge to his tone. “So we figure all that out and then the peace officers kill us anyway since they’ve all got sonic cannons.”

“Then we die! But at least we’ll die trying to _do something_ , Grantaire, rather than drinking ourselves into an early grave with black market booze. If you aren’t willing to give everything to this cause, then why the _fuck_ are you here?”

“You know, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, venom lacing his words. “I guess I don’t know.”

Before anyone else can say anything, Grantaire is slamming the door on his way out of the apartment. It’s early evening, so no officers should be patrolling for noise violations, but Courfeyrac still winces. Enjolras is staring after Grantaire, chest heaving, every line of his body taut with anger.

“I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t do something stupid,” Bahorel sighs. “We’ll talk more later?”

Enjolras nods, the beginnings of regret starting to show on his face. “Let’s call it a night and pick up again tomorrow at the Musain.”

The rest of Les Amis voice their assent and file out of the apartment until Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are all that’s left. Enjolras lets out a noise of frustration and collapses onto the sofa next to Courfeyrac. Combeferre leans against the wall opposite.

“He’s not wrong,” Combeferre says after a brief period of silence. “We hadn’t thought about the sonics.”

That’s the thing with Grantaire – he usually is right, but he always voices his concerns as pointed barbs rather than in any constructive manner. The sonic cannons that the peace officers possess are deadly, with shock waves able to toss human bodies like ragdolls. Even the smaller, handheld versions are enough to knock a person off their feet.

“I _know_ that,” Enjolras grouses, throwing his hands in the air. “But he always brings problems, never solutions. He’s smart and talented, but he doesn’t care about anything! Except, perhaps, pointing out how our plans won’t work.”

“Have you tried talking to him?” Courfeyrac asks gently, already knowing the answer.

Enjolras lets out a derisive laugh, throwing an arm across his eyes. “Grantaire doesn’t want to talk to me. He can’t stand me.”

 _Oh my god_ , Courfeyrac mouths at Combeferre, who gives a helpless shrug. Courfeyrac could scream.

“Enjolras,” he says slowly. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“All we do is fight, Courfeyrac.”

“Does that mean you can’t stand him?”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Enjolras replies, moving his arm to look at Courfeyrac, and he sounds even angrier as he admits it. “As I said, he’s smart and talented, and the flyers he made are excellent, but – ”

“Talk. To. Him,” Courfeyrac interrupts, standing and turning to leave for the night, back to the apartment he shares with Marius. “Alright, Enjolras? Talk to him.”

Enjolras, predictably does not talk to Grantaire, and Grantaire doesn’t show up to their next several meetings. His concerns have been written out on a whiteboard at the Musain, items to be addressed, but Enjolras and Grantaire are still seething at one another, and so Grantaire isn’t there.

They work their way through those concerns:

“The citadel workers still use the same communal laundry as everyone else,” Bossuet says, thinking. “I’m not sure there would be any real cause for concern if a few articles went missing – everyone loses things in the laundry.”

Which, while probably truer for Bossuet with his terrible luck than the others, was not an incorrect statement. They’d all lost something at one time or other.

And then a few days later,

“The microcoms can be programmed with multiple channels,” Jehan says, legs kicked out over the arm of his chair. “We have the main one, to contact the people in the city, but we can also create individual ones that only we can access.”

Later, Bahorel mentions a potential mode of transportation.

“There are vans,” he says. “A whole fleet of them, waiting to be decommissioned. It shouldn’t be that hard to steal them.”

Until the final concern is how, exactly, they are meant to break through a massive concrete and steel wall.

“I can ask my dad.”

All eyes turn to Cosette, who just smiles sweetly at everyone. “He learned to make explosives in prison,” she continues. “He has a box of them under his bed.”

“How has he not been caught with them?” Joly bursts out, incredulous.

Cosette shrugs. “He saved Inspector Javert’s life once, during a prison riot. So Javert leaves him alone now.”

“Your dad has _bombs_ ? Why does he have _bombs_?” Marius squeaks.

“Because he’s cool as hell,” Eponine says, swinging herself onto the table next to Cosette. “We can definitely use those.”

After a week without seeing Grantaire, Courfeyrac gets fed up with the whole situation. He’s been reassured by Bahorel and then Joly and then Bossuet that Grantaire is totally fine and just taking a few days, but he can’t keep watching Enjolras leave pauses as he speaks, waiting for Grantaire to jump in only to realize that Grantaire _still_ isn’t there and deflate.

So, Courfeyrac finds himself on Grantaire’s doorstep early in the morning, knocking incessantly. After a few minutes of ceaseless knocking, Grantaire wrenches the door open. He looks like hell, dark circles under his eyes and hair a wild mess, and he’s very clearly hungover.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/188283660@N03/49856892261/in/dateposted-public/)

“Do you know what time it is?” Grantaire asks, eyes narrowed.

“It’s eight, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. “Most people are up by now. Can I come in?”

Grantaire moves to the side to let Courfeyrac pass. “Most people are _not_ up by now, Courfeyrac, it’s _Saturday_.”

Courfeyrac breezes into the apartment, noting a few discarded bottles littering the table. Not as many as he was anticipating, but still enough to be discouraging. “Well, then I’m sorry for waking you,” he amends. “Did I wake Bahorel too?”

“No, he already left to talk to Jehan about stealing some vans.”

“So what you’re saying,” Courfeyrac says smugly, turning to see Grantaire flop onto the sofa. “Is that most people are up by now.”

That manages to draw a small chuckle out of Grantaire. “No, I just have insane friends. Go bang on my neighbors’ doors and see how they like it.”

“As fun as that sounds, I’m actually here to talk to you.”

Grantaire tenses. “Look, if Enjolras sent you – ”

“Enjolras didn’t send me.” Courfeyrac crosses his arms. “But maybe it would do you some good to have an actual conversation with him.”

“What does it matter?” Grantaire bites. “He doesn’t care about anything I have to say; he wouldn’t listen to me anyway!”

“You both are unbelievable.”

Grantaire scoffs. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re going to lecture me on my _feelings_ and _communication_ , when you refuse to tell Combeferre how you really feel – ”

“Combeferre already knows!” Courfeyrac bursts out. He stares at Grantaire, chest heaving. “He’s known for a long time.”

Grantaire’s eyes are wide as Courfeyrac sinks down beside him. Courfeyrac doesn’t stop him when he gets up, disappearing into the kitchen briefly and then returning with glasses of something far too strong for eight a.m. Courfeyrac takes a sip, nearly coughing as the liquor burns its way down his throat. He takes another swig.

“We talked about it years ago,” Courfeyrac continues. “We decided that it was for the best if we didn’t act on our feelings. That we’d rather be able to love each other as free men or not at all. That had made sense at the time, I guess, but now I don’t know.”

Courfeyrac usually doesn’t talk about this because when he does, he just wishes they’d made a different decision. He understands why they did it – better to love wholly and freely in a place where they can be their own people, rather than in an oppressive, conformist regime that doesn’t necessarily punish love but certainly doesn’t tolerate its open celebration. Yet he can’t help but feel that everything would be easier if he and Combeferre had just acted, had allowed their fledgling feelings to blossom however they may. There’s a special sort of hell that exists when you love your best friend and know he loves you back, but you still aren’t together.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be lecturing you on feelings and communication.” Courfeyrac laughs bitterly, staring at the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “But I really do think you should talk to Enjolras.”

“ _Fuck,_ Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says with feeling, and Courfeyrac toasts to that.

Courfeyrac stays at Grantaire’s a little while longer, probably drinking more than he should on a Saturday morning, but he enjoys Grantaire’s company, and sometimes it’s good to just relax. When he stumbles through his own door a few hours later, Marius and Cosette are standing side by side, pointing at a map on the table. Marius blinks up at him.

“Good morning,” he says warmly before noticing how Courfeyrac nearly topples while removing his shoes and lists slightly to the side when he tries to straighten back up. “Courfeyrac, are you drunk?”

“Perhaps,” Courfeyrac mumbles, trying and failing to get the world to right itself. It’s been a long time since he’s had that much to drink. “But it was for a good cause,” he reasons.

“Oh? And what would that be?” Cosette asks as she helps Courfeyrac onto the sofa.

“If Enjolras and Grantaire keep refusing to talk to each other, I’m going to lose it, and then you’ll have to deal with me as well as putting up with them. I’m doing the entire world a favor right now.”

Cosette laughs as she rejoins Marius. “We all appreciate it.”

A few hours later, Combeferre is at Courfeyrac’s door. Courfeyrac has a pounding headache from the alcohol, but he isn’t about to turn Combeferre away. He lets him in with a questioning glance.

“Grantaire showed up,” Combeferre says as an answer. “I figured it would be best if I clear out for a bit.”

“Thank god,” Courfeyrac mutters. “I was beginning to think they’d never sort themselves out.”

Combeferre chuckles, and they sit together far into the evening, talking with each other, with Marius and Cosette. They share a meal and plan a bit and mostly enjoy each other’s company, and if Courfeyrac’s heart aches just a bit every time he looks at Combeferre, that’s his own business.

It’s worth it when Enjolras and Grantaire show up to the next meeting holding hands.

The rest of the planning goes smoothly over the next few weeks. There is some bickering, some arguing, but ideas come together and loose ends tie up and Courfeyrac is starting to really feel like this is possible. They’re not there yet, but they’re close, he can feel it.

A number of them are sitting in Courfeyrac’s apartment, map spread out on the table, when they nearly get caught. They haven’t been careless, but close calls are to be expected when planning to tear down a regime.

The map is dotted with markers, indicating where they intend to set explosives on the Wall. The bombs are remotely detonated, so they can set a number of them and cause a major distraction in multiple locations, drawing officers away from them and offering the rest of Paris a chance to get out as well.

Enjolras has just begun detailing the explosives’ exact placement when he is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. It isn’t the three quick raps that Les Amis use to identify themselves. This is hard and deliberate, commanding. It is after curfew and no one in Courfeyrac’s apartment block has ever paid him a late-night visit before. He knows exactly who it must be, even as he rolls the map and shoves it into Enjolras’ arms, gathers the papers and shoves them at Combeferre. The knocks sound again, louder and more insistent.

“Just a minute,” Courfeyrac calls, gesturing toward his bedroom and waiting until everyone but Marius makes themselves scarce, hopefully finding some degree of cover in case the apartment is searched.

Marius has his hands clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white from the strain, as he stares at the wall. Courfeyrac gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passes, but from the way Marius tenses further, it probably came across as desperate. He snatches a jacket from the hall closet and pulls it on, tugging the zipper up to his chin. His heart is threatening to beat out of his chest and his hands are shaking as he wrenches open the door.

On the other side is Inspector Javert himself. Courfeyrac has never seen the man up close before – in photos, sure – but Javert is severe in a way that an image cannot convey, from the sharp lines of his uniform to the neat trim of his beard to his cold, piercing gaze. Courfeyrac keeps one hand tightly on the door, blocking Javert from seeing much of the apartment.

“Inspector!” Courfeyrac says brightly, plastering a smile across his face. “What can I do for you this evening?”

Javert steps forward. It’s calculated, a move meant to make Courfeyrac step back and allow Javert access. Courfeyrac doesn’t move.

“You are aware that it is far past curfew.” It’s a statement. Javert takes another step, and mild annoyance flashes across his face as Courfeyrac once more remains in place.

“Yes sir.”

“You are aware that public disturbances past curfew are a violation of the law.” Another step. Courfeyrac’s wide grin hasn’t faltered.

“Yes sir.”

They are standing nearly nose to nose now, and Courfeyrac is sure he’s never seen such contempt in another person’s eyes. Javert regards him like a beetle to be quashed underfoot, an irritating fly.

“Then why,” Javert asks, enunciating each word clearly, “Have I received a report of raised voices at this residence within the past hour?”

Their voice hadn’t even been raised. They’d just been talking, discussing, debating. They’ve been reported for nothing more than having a conversation. Or maybe not reported – maybe Javert had been in the area and heard more than silence and decided that was enough to be classified as a disturbance. Anything that isn’t strict conformance is outright disobedience, no exception.

Courfeyrac pretends to think, tilting his head and humming in consideration. “Oh!” he exclaims with a laugh, waving his hand breezily. “My roommate and I were having a bit of a disagreement, nothing serious. It’s resolved now; I’m terribly sorry you came all this way.”

Javert’s eyes narrow at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac knows he’s a decent liar, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Even if Javert believed the lie, he’s already decided Courfeyrac is guilty of something. 

“Step back,” Javert commands, and Courfeyrac does. His sense of self-preservation isn’t always the greatest, but he isn’t stupid. If he disobeys, it seems like he has something to hide, a reason for Javert to search the apartment. If he cooperates, he might, just _might_ , be able to spin this in his favor.

Javert walks into the apartment with clear disdain etched in all of his movements. His gaze flickers from the errant dish in the sink to the haphazard stack of newspapers on the side table. His eyes stop on Marius, who has gone pale and is studying his hands like he’ll find some universe where the Inspector himself isn’t standing in their living room.

“You are the roommate, I presume?”

Head still bowed, Marius answers. “Yes, Inspector.”

“Tell me,” Javert says, continuing his sweep of the apartment. “What was the nature of your disagreement?”

Marius raises his head, eyes wide and innocent. Courfeyrac sends a prayer to any god that cares to listen that whatever Marius says will get Javert to leave. Javert’s not-so-subtle search is taking him closer and closer to the bedrooms, and every step is a stone sinking further into his gut.

“We were just discussing socks, sir.”

 _Oh god, we’re going to be killed_ , Courfeyrac thinks, but Marius’ statement is wild enough that Javert’s hand pauses on the doorknob to Courfeyrac’s bedroom. He turns back to stare at Marius, impassive mask slipping just enough for sheer incredulity to get through.

“Well,” Marius continues, “I think it might be worthwhile to wear your socks up over your pant legs, especially on cold nights. To keep out the chill, you know?”

“Which is ridiculous,” Courfeyrac jumps in, because if this is the ship they’re on, he’s not about to let Marius sink alone. “It would cause horrible wrinkles.”

There is one moment, two, where Courfeyrac is certain Javert is going to ignore them and continue his search and see a number of ill-concealed young people out after curfew with armfuls of revolutionary propaganda. A moment where he’s fully accepted that they’re all going to be executed. But then annoyance flashes across Javert’s face, and he sneers at Marius and eyes Courfeyrac with intense disdain.

“You are found to be in violation of Code eighteen point three two,” Javert says, his words clipped and direct. “In accordance with the law, this is your first infraction and so will serve as your official warning.” With measured steps, Javert moves across the room, stopping to loom over Courfeyrac. “Any other such infraction will be an arrestable offense.”

“Won’t happen again,” Courfeyrac replies, grin still firmly in place. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but Courfeyrac never intended it to. “Sir,” he adds belatedly.

Without another word, Javert sweeps past Courfeyrac and out, the door clicking shut behind him. Courfeyrac darts into the entrance, verifying the closed door and watching through the small window as Javert’s back disappears into the night. He counts to ten, breathing in and out slowly in a vain attempt to slow his racing heart. When he returns to the main room, Marius is still sitting on the sofa, head in his hands, taking shuddering breaths. Courfeyrac lowers himself onto the sofa beside him.

“Marius, you mad genius,” Courfeyrac says, and then he can’t help himself – he starts laughing. It bubbles up from his chest, tinged at the edges with hysteria. Marius looks up at him sharply. “ _Socks_?”

And then Marius is laughing too, and he wraps his arms around Courfeyrac, and they stay like that for some time, safe in each others’ arms and laughing themselves to tears. And if Marius’ breath hitches a few times, if Courfeyrac’s hands are still shaking where they’re gripping the fabric of Marius’ jacket, that’s between them.

Once they’ve mostly collected themselves, Courfeyrac wrenches open the door to his bedroom to see his friends standing in the center of the room, poised for a fight. Grantaire is brandishing the bedside lamp, and Enjorlas’ fists are raised in front of him. Bahorel apparently brought a knife. Courfeyrac blinks owlishly at them.

“Were you planning to _jump_ the Inspector?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t receive an answer. Instead, he’s gathered in Combeferre’s arms before he can even register that the other man moved. He’s dimly aware of Eponine and Grantaire hurrying out to check on Marius, aware that Enjolras is gripping his arm just a bit too tightly, aware that Bahorel and Joly are putting his room back in order – setting the makeshift weapons back in their places. He’s aware of all those things, but Combeferre’s warm chest and hands are taking up most of his attention. Eventually, the fact that Enjolras is speaking to him filters in as well.

“– need to be moving faster. We’re so close; we can’t let them win now. I _would’ve_ jumped Inspector Javert if he took you to prison, Courfeyrac, would have done what was necessary –” 

Courfeyrac reluctantly pulls back from Combeferre’s embrace to look at them both. He gently pries Enjolras’ fingers from his arm and clasps both of their hands, beaming up at them.

“I’d rather not go to prison,” Courfeyrac says, “And I have no intention of following the law, so I guess we better figure out how to tear down the entire system.”

They rejoin everyone back on the sofa. Some of the color has returned to Marius’ face, and they all press together as Enjolras spreads out the map once more.

* * *

It’s a rainy evening, and everyone is gathered in the back of the Musain. After Javert’s visit to Courfeyrac’s apartment, they have been far more careful about meeting in anyone’s private quarters. Even without the wristbands tracking their movements, if they are caught, they’ll be sent to prison or to death. Just bodies in unmarked graves.

Combeferre is halfway through an explanation of their infiltration route, citadel blueprints pinned up against the wall, when the door to the back room flies open, only stopped from crashing directly into the wall by Eponine’s arm darting out to grab it. Gavroche is standing there, eyes wild and chest heaving.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” Eponine hisses at him as she eases the door shut once more and peers down at him. Gavroche just stares back at her. “Gav?” she prompts, “What’s wrong?”

“Lamarque’s dead.”

 _Dead_ . The room falls into complete silence. Conversation ends, papers stop being shuffled, pens stop scratching. The invincible Lamarque, the revolutionary – _dead_. He’s dead, and his body is going to be burned to ash in the Place de la Bastille and then no proof will exist that he was ever alive.

The complete stillness is shattered as Grantaire lets out a string of curses. They all look at one another. There’s grief and anger and a sweeping sense of loss. Joly moves to crouch next to Gavroche, examining him briefly to make sure he’s okay.

“Can you tell us what happened?” he asks gently.

“I was on my way over here when I heard gunshots,” Gavroche replies. “I went to check it out and there was a body on the ground. Javert was there; I heard him tell an officer to report to the Monarch that they got Lamarque.”

“You weren’t seen?” Eponine asks, and Gavroche shakes his head. She relaxes minutely. “Good. Be more careful next time, you idiot. Don’t follow fucking gunshots.” Gavroche shrugs, entirely unapologetic. 

Small conversations erupt all around the room. _I can’t believe_ and _holy shit_ and _what now_. Next to Courfeyrac, Enjolras pushes himself to his feet and starts pacing. Courfeyrac’s eyes follow him as he thinks. Eventually his steps slow, and he turns to face the room. Conversations die one by one as focus turns to him.

“We can use this,” Enjolras says, eyes blazing with conviction. “If he died today, that means a pyre will be announced, set for one week from now. Lamarque was an enemy of the state, so the Monarch will be in attendance, as well as Inspector Javert and most of the peace officers. The citadel will be even less protected than usual. This is when we act.”

A murmur of assent sweeps the room. Combeferre pulls a white board over and begins taking notes. “With the city-wide broadcast of the pyre, there will be no eyes on us as we move,” he adds.

Courfeyrac is alight. The small flame of hope that lives in his chest flourishes into a raging fire. They’ve been waiting for this moment, planning for this moment, and this is the best possible chance they’ll ever have.

“So,” Grantaire drawls, staring directly at Enjolras. “We’re going to capitalize on the murder of a man to enact a plan that’s only mostly finished in order to tear down the entire establishment, and we’re going to do it in the next seven days?”

Enjolras locks eyes with Grantaire, unwavering. “Yes.”

A tense moment passes as they stare each other down, the rest of the room holding its collective breath. Grantaire breaks first, eyes flickering away with a small laugh.

“Well hell,” he says, “I guess we are.”

And then Feuilly is crossing the room for a discussion with Bahorel, and Bossuet and Jehan are studying a map, and Cosette and Joly are creating contingencies. Courfeyrac joins Combeferre and Enjolras at the white board and they begin to iron out the remaining logistics of their plan.

A week later, Courfeyrac is pacing his apartment, excitement and thrill and more than a little anxiety thrumming in his veins. Marius is sitting, spinning his wristband on the table absently, watching as the metal turns and turns and clatters onto the surface. Without warning, the wristband flashes blue, commanding them to tune into the national broadcast. A stream of the Place de la Bastille fills the screen, the Monarch, Javert, and scores of officers fill the square around the pyre. The sun is just beginning to set – the perfect time to view a fire.

The Place de la Bastille has long been used for the executions of enemies of the state, or pyres when those enemies are already dead. It’s a warning, an echo of the prison that once stood in that spot. This is what happens to those who reject the law. This is how they end.

Courfeyrac turns to Marius and holds out a hand. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Marius says, steel in his eyes. He lets Courfeyrac pull him up, and together they walk out of the apartment, wristbands resting on the table, still glowing blue. One way or another, they are never coming back.

Courfeyrac and Marius sneak through the streets, dodging into alleys to avoid officers. There are patrols on days like today, but they are few and far between, just there to ensure that citizens are staying in their homes. Anyone out would be revealed by the trackers in their wristbands so that the officers can corner them before they get anywhere. As such, the officers are more concerned with monitoring the GPS signals than actually paying attention to the dark corners of the streets.

They meet up with the rest of Les Amis at the outskirts of the city. Combeferre and Feuilly are dressed in pilfered citadel uniforms, the reprogrammed wristbands already on their arms. The vans are running, Cosette, Grantaire, and Jehan behind the wheels of each. Marius pulls Courfeyrac in for a tight hug before they part ways. Courfeyrac hopes with everything he is that this isn’t the last time they see each other.

After a few more hugs, clasped hands, and whispered _good luck_ s from each of his friends, Courfeyrac pulls himself into Grantaire’s van with Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly. Marius, Bahorel, Eponine, and Gavroche clamber in with Cosette while Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta join Jehan. Valjean is still in the city, keeping an eye on the broadcast and relaying any changes to them. He will join them after the citadel falls.

They drive in a silence that is somehow both tense and comforting. Courfeyrac is on edge. The next few hours will determine if all of their planning pays off. They will either succeed and free Paris, or they’ll be burning at the Place de la Bastille. He runs his fingers over the microcom in his hands, programmed with a simple message to the citizens back in Paris who had attended Enjolras’ speech all those weeks ago.

Courfeyrac feels a warm hand on his and looks up at Combeferre, who gives him a reassuring smile. It says _I’m nervous too, but we can do this. It’s going to be alright_ , and Courfeyrac lets some of the tension leave his shoulders. Above all else, he trusts Les Amis. He trusts them to stay the course, to follow their plan and not give up. If they go down, they go down together. If they succeed, they walk free _together_. Courfeyrac tangles their fingers together and gives Combeferre an answering grin.

Grantaire pulls the van behind a hill just outside the citadel gates. The citadel never goes dark, with people working inside every hour of every day, and tonight is no different. The mandatory viewing of the pyre means that all of the employees should be in a central location watching and not covering the servers. They all climb out of the van, and Enjolras spreads the annotated maps across the hood – one with a set of blueprints for the citadel, the other a map of the city marked with the locations of the other groups. He looks up at Combeferre and Feuilly, who are checking their uniforms and wristbands one last time.

“Once you shut down the server bank, you’ll only have roughly ten minutes to make it back here before the officers from the city start to arrive, so move fast.”

“And good luck!” Courfeyrac calls from where he’s leaning with Grantaire against the side of the van, the microcom clutched in his hand.

Courfeyrac looks down again, at the message ready to go in the microcom, and when he looks up, Feuilly is looking over the blueprints once more with Enjolras, and Combeferre is standing directly in front of him. He holds a hand out to Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac takes it, letting Combeferre pull him a few steps away from the van. When they stop, Courfeyrac is standing _very_ close to Combeferre. Combeferre looks almost nervous, which is understandable considering they’re all about to risk their lives, but somewhat puzzling considering up until right this moment, Combeferre has been a rock, fully confident in their plan. Then again, maybe it’s even more understandable as they get to the point where they’re _actually_ risking their lives. Combeferre is silent for a moment, simply studying Courfeyrac.

“Combeferre – ” Courfeyrac begins, but he’s interrupted.

“Can I kiss you?”

All of the breath leaves Courfeyrac’s lungs. He must have misheard, must be having delusions. “What?”

“I would like to kiss you, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says softly, bringing a hand up to cradle Courfeyrac’s face. “I know we said we’d wait until we were free men, but I love you. I’m in love with you, and I needed to say it. Just in case – ”

Courfeyrac surges up, pressing his lips to Combeferre’s. It’s gentle, a chaste press of lips, and Courfeyrac can feel Combeferre smiling against his mouth. It’s everything Courfeyrac had imagined, and he’s wanted this, wanted _Combeferre_ for so long, that a part of him wants to drag Combeferre away from this whole thing and just kiss him for a while longer. But he can’t, he knows he can’t, because they have a plan to follow and a city to free and they’ve worked too hard and come too far to let that go.

After what feels simultaneously like an eternity and mere nanoseconds, Courfeyrac pulls away. Combeferre is grinning at him, and Courfeyrac can feel an answering smile stretched across his face. Courfeyrac takes a step back against everything in his body screaming at him to move somehow closer.

“Stay safe, okay?” Courfeyrac says weakly.

“Of course,” Combeferre answers, and then he’s walking away with Feuilly, toward the citadel.

Courfeyrac takes a few moments to collect himself before walking back over to the van. Grantaire lets out a quiet whistle, laughing when Courfeyrac flips him off. Enjolras is studying the blueprints with the hints of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. He bumps Courfeyrac with his shoulder as they stand beside each other.

“They’re on their way in,” Enjolras says. “You’re ready with the message?”

“For sure,” Courfeyrac says, holding up the microcom. “Just tell me when.”

After a few more moments, Combeferre’s voice crackles through Enjolras’ com. “We’re inside, and there isn’t anyone around. All goes well, we’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Enjolras mutters an affirmative and nods at Courfeyrac, who hits send. The message goes out to those thirty people who had been at the speech, but thirty people should be more than enough to cause a distraction, to cause a riot in the streets and occupy the officers. Enjolras had told them that they’d know when to act, and this is their sign. The message just reads: _rise_.

Courfeyrac takes a breath and leans against the side of the van next to Grantaire. All they can really do is wait – wait for something to go wrong or wait for something to go right. Enjolras continues to stare at the maps, Grantaire stares into the night, and Courfeyrac’s eyes are trained on the citadel.

“Fuck, I could use a drink right now,” Grantaire mutters, startling a laugh out of Courfeyrac.

“Me too,” he admits. A couple shots of something strong would probably do a lot to soothe the sharp edges of his nerves.

“Imagine all the alcohol there is outside the Wall,” Grantaire says. “You can probably just _buy_ it like anything else, not having to trade through the black market for it. If you read old books, they talk of flowing wine and spirits. The variety! First thing I’m going to do once we get out is figure out if fine wine is still a thing out there and drink for _days_.”

Grantaire’s tangent continues, and Courfeyrac lets his voice wash over him. For a moment, the tension lets go and it’s just like they’re in the Musain, and everything is fine. And then, just as suddenly as the calm came, it shatters. Enjolras’ com crackles, and Valjean’s voice comes through.

“No one’s out,” he says. “Your call went out but no one answered.”

Enjolras mutters a curse under his breath. “Fine, that’s fine. We can still do this without them. Continue on as planned.”

“You have to change course. The pyre was cut short. When your message came in, Javert gathered several men and left.”

Courfeyrac’s stomach drops. Not only did no one else join in their revolution, but Javert knows. Which should be _impossible_ , they had vetted everyone carefully before giving them a microcom, had been _sure_ that, even if those people did not act, they would at least not go to the authorities. Enjolras continues to bombard Valjean with questions, so Courfeyrac pulls out his own com, switching it to Combeferre’s frequency.

“Combeferre, status update,” Courfeyrac nearly shouts. 

“We’re in the server room now. No issues,” Combeferre answers. “Is there a problem?”

“Just work as fast as you can,” Courfeyrac says. “There’s been a complication.”

“Okay, we’ll – ”

Combeferre’s voice is drowned out as an alarm starts to blare through the citadel, lights flashing. Just as suddenly, the citadel goes completely dark, and the rest of the city follows, lights blinking out all across the horizon behind them. Courfeyrac hears Valjean tell Enjolras that the wristbands have gone dark, hears Cosette report that the field around the Wall has shut down and they’ll start setting charges, hears Jehan report the same. Courfeyrac’s com crackles.

“Everything’s down; we’re heading out now,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac nearly allows himself to breathe again, but then the sound of gunfire erupts over the com before it cuts out entirely.

“Combeferre? Combeferre!”

There is nothing on the other end but silence, and the silence stretches and stretches, and Courfeyrac can hear the gunfire in the citadel from where he stands, but nothing through the com, and he is struck by the sudden realization that he never told Combeferre that he loved him too. Enjolras is still barking commands to the others, but it all seems like a buzzing in his ears because Combeferre isn’t answering, and he has to assume the worst. Courfeyrac knows that the likelihood of being killed was high, but he never imagined that someone else would die and Courfeyrac wouldn’t and he’d have to just _live with that_ . And for it to be _Combeferre_.

And then Grantaire’s hands are on Courfeyrac’s upper arms and his eyes are wild and he’s talking to Courfeyrac, telling him to just breathe, that Combeferre is probably fine, they probably would have stopped shooting by now if he wasn’t. Courfeyrac finds himself nodding along to his words. He’s making sense, more sense than Courfeyrac seems to be capable of at the moment.

“Plus,” Grantaire finishes, “If Combeferre and Feuilly are the _first_ to go, the rest of us don’t stand half a chance. They’re the most competent among us.”

That startles a laugh out of Courfeyrac, and he feels like he’s coming back to himself. Even if Combeferre is – is (and god, he can’t even bring himself to _think_ it but even if Combeferre _is_ ), he can’t fall apart. He owes it to Combeferre and Feuilly and everyone else to see this through, however it ends.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says, “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Thanks, Grantaire.”

Grantaire flashes him a tight smile and nods. As they join Enjolras, Grantaire presses a palm between Enjolras’ shoulder blades, and Enjolras relaxes minutely and shoots a small smile his way. Enjolras reaches over and squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand; despite whatever hard exterior Enjolras puts up, he’s terrified for Feuilly and Combeferre too.

“We’re meeting at the second rendezvous instead of here,” Enjolras tells them. “So I told everyone else to go to the fourteenth arrondissement.”

Courfeyrac dreads the words before they come out of his mouth, but he says them anyway. “We have to leave in five to make it on time.”

“I know.”

It’s then that Courfeyrac notices that the gunfire has stopped. He stares at the citadel – still dark from the bug that Combeferre and Feuilly let loose in the system. His heart is in his throat, and he’s counting down every second in his mind. Either they’ll come back, or they won’t.

Courfeyrac is at two hundred thirty-six seconds when he sees them, cresting the hill. They’re both on their feet, but Combeferre is clearly supporting Feuilly. Courfeyrac races up the hill, Enjolras and Grantaire hot on his heels. Combeferre has a bruise already beginning on his cheek. Feuilly looks dazed, blood collecting in his hairline. Grantaire moves to Feuilly’s other side, and they help him back to the van.

“Those assholes have sonics,” Feuilly mutters as they go. “Caught us with one on our way out.”

“Feuilly’s concussed; he took the brunt of the pulse,” Combeferre adds. “We did get the system down, though. It should take them hours, if not days, to get running again.”

“Good,” Enjolras says. “We’ve got to move to meet up with everyone else, but we’re close.” He sighs, looking at both Feuilly and Combeferre. “I’m glad you both made it.”

“Take a lot more than one sonic pulse to take us down,” Feuilly responds with a sharp grin.

As the other three gather the maps and reload the van, Courfeyrac pulls Combeferre to him roughly. “Don’t do that again,” he says, face buried in Combeferre’s shirt.

“Courfeyrac – ”

Courfeyrac cuts him off before he can even begin. “I know, okay? I know what we signed up for, and I know the risks. But I love you. If we go, we go together.”

Combeferre looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grips Courfeyrac’s hand as they climb into the van and doesn’t let go.

Grantaire shifts the van into gear and presses the gas pedal to the floor, peeling out away from the citadel. They can hear the doppler sirens of the peace officers’ vehicles screaming toward the citadel from the city. Grantaire tries to keep off the road where possible, but the vans aren’t meant to drive over dirt and brush. The officers fly past, but the likelihood that the van remains undetected is astronomically low. They can only hope that they’re driving fast enough to outpace the officers when they turn around to give chase.

They reach the fourteenth arrondissement in record time, careening around buildings and screeching to a halt beside the Seine. The other vans are already there, tucked down alleys. They spill out of their van, Courfeyrac and Combeferre helping Feuilly, ducking around to meet the rest of their friends. Joly darts forward, already asking Feuilly a series of questions, what he remembers, and applying what limited first aid he can.

“There is a zero percent chance we weren’t followed,” Grantaire says as he stumbles out of the driver’s seat.

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance. A pulse sweeps past them, through them, throwing everyone to the ground and shattering windows up and down the street. Whatever sonics the citadel employees had at their disposal, the peace officers have one ten times stronger. A second wave comes, catching the van and sending it tipping, crashing onto its side and barely missing Enjolras and Grantaire. 

A third blast pushes the van, bracketing them all in with the storefronts on either side. There is silence for a moment before gunshots start, pinging off the van’s undercarriage. The officers are shouting on the other side, demanding surrender. Courfeyrac thanks every god that sonic cannons have a recharge period.

Crouched behind the overturned van, Enjolras surveys the group. “The charges are set?”

Cosette nods. “All along the Wall.”

“We need to detonate everything now, except for the one closest to us. If we cause as much chaos as possible, we might be able to draw away some of the officers.” Enjolras turns to Eponine, who has the detonator already in her hands. “Do it now.”

Even from here, Courfeyrac can hear as explosions start to go off, one by one. There is rumbling as parts of the Wall start to crumble in the distance. The gunfire behind them falters briefly, and the shouting increases. Javert’s voice cuts across the commotion, and the gunfire strengthens again. A handful of young revolutionaries deemed a bigger threat than literal holes in their border. Maybe that’s true. No other citizens have come to their aid or risen to the cause – why would they risk death running through gaps in the Wall into the unknown? Maybe this rebellion will end here. But maybe it won’t. Maybe people are escaping the city even now.

Enjolras’ hands curl to fists, head held high. If Courfeyrac hadn’t known him for years, he might have missed the slight tremor of his hands, the nearly imperceptible exhale of breath.

“Those of you who are not willing to die may remain here until the dawn. When we move from here, our commotion elsewhere will likely cover your retreat back to your homes.”

Enjolras’s eyes lock with Courfeyrac’s, and Courfeyrac can see his own resolve magnified tenfold. The silence seems to stretch out, taut and waiting. Courfeyrac stands beside Enjolras, and Combeferre follows.

“I’d rather die a martyr with you all than hide for the rest of my life,” he says, and some of the tension leaves Enjolras’ shoulders as murmurs of assent sweep the group. His eyes linger on Grantaire.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” Grantaire says with a salute that isn’t mocking enough to mask the raw sincerity in his voice. Enjolras grins in response, reaching out and clasping Grantaire’s hand.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/188283660@N03/49857194337/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/188283660@N03/49856349448/in/dateposted-public/)

“Okay,” Enjolras begins, and in true Enjolras fashion, his words solidify into a plan, a chance.

Courfeyrac has always been impressed by Enjolras’ ability to command attention, to sway a crowd, but every speech Enjolras has ever given is nothing in comparison. His words rise in righteous flame, weaving among them and lighting sparks. The desperation and resignation in the eyes of each member of Les Amis is replaced with determination and certainty. They are going to escape the city or die trying, and maybe, _maybe_ , the citizens of Paris who are afraid will see their actions, their sacrifice, and they will rise together. If Les Amis are the spark, then revolution will light Paris ablaze.

“How many explosives do we have left?” Enjolras asks.

“Five,” says Bahorel, passing them to Enjolras, who then hands two to Courfeyrac. “Not counting the one still on the Wall.”

“We throw one here and run. We can’t take the vans – too conspicuous. Half of us east and the other half west. We meet back up at the Wall. Bahorel, Jehan, Cosette, Marius, Feuilly, Grantaire, with me. Courfeyrac will lead the rest of you west. Cosette, anything from Valjean?”

Cosette shakes her head, a frown twisting on her face. “I haven’t heard from him since we sent the message.”

“Then we continue as we are,” Enjolras says. “It’s been an honor to know you all. Long live the revolution!”

Enjolras turns, hurling an explosive over the van and into the crowd of officers. There is a chorus of concerned shouts, and then the bomb goes off and there is chaos. Courfeyrac meets Enjolras’ eyes and nods before spinning to sprint down an alley to the west. He hopes this isn’t the last time he sees Enjolras and all the rest. Hopes that this has all been for something, that they won’t all die in the streets here. He meant it when he told Combeferre he knew the risks, but that doesn’t mean he wants to see them realized.

Courfeyrac twists into a small side street, motioning for the others to move past him as he stops to slap an explosive onto the wall behind him. He can hear the officers approaching quickly, can hear their footfalls against the pavement. The first officer turns the corner and spots Courfeyrac as he ducks around a bend, shouting to the officers behind him and letting loose a volley of bullets. Courfeyrac ducks and presses back out of range and yells for Eponine to please set off the fucking bomb.

The explosion rips through the street, crumbling the walls at the entrance and burying a number of officers beneath the rubble, leaving his ears ringing. Courfeyrac whirls to motion to everyone to keep running. As he raises his hand, a sharp pain lances through his shoulder, sending the world lurching, and he’s sure he screams, but nothing is quite registering properly in his senses. When the black spots stop dancing in front of his eyes, he finds that he’s been pulled between buildings. Combeferre’s face is the first thing he sees, brow furrowed in concern. Joly is beside him, pressing on his shoulder and Courfeyrac tries to jerk away from the fire radiating down his arm, but Combeferre holds him in place.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Courfeyrac manages weakly.

“Officers climbed up onto the roof,” Combeferre says. “We took them out with the other explosive, but not before they hit you.”

“Any more of them?” It would be just Courfeyrac’s luck to get shot and still not have evaded all the guys with the guns.

“Not that I can see,” Eponine calls, and Courfeyrac looks over to see her peering down the adjacent alley. “No one’s shooting anymore.”

Just then, Joly does something that sends spikes of pain shooting through Courfeyrac’s body, and he lets out a colorful string of curses. Glancing over, he can see that Joly has tied off his shoulder with strips of someone’s jacket.

“What’s the verdict?” Courfeyrac asks through his teeth.

“Well, you’ll live,” Joly says, trying and failing to wipe the blood off his hands. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge of panic that he’s not quite hiding. “But _please_ no one else get shot.”

“Good advice,” Courfeyrac agrees. He mutters his thanks to Joly and steels himself, pushing off the wall with a grunt of pain. Combeferre hovers at his side, making sure he doesn’t collapse.

Just then, Gavroche pops into view. Courfeyrac imagines he must have darted away to scout up ahead which is _dangerous_ , but none of them have ever been very good at stopping Gavroche from doing what he wants.

“Three streets over and we’re there,” he says. “Coast is clear.”

Bossuet ruffles Gavroche’s hair, and Gavroche allows it with minimal grumbling. They set off, Courfeyrac now moving slowly at the back of the group, Combeferre and Joly at his sides. Musichetta leads, looking carefully down the streets before moving, and they make their way out toward the Wall. When they arrive, they see the other group already gathered, looking disheveled and a bit worse for wear, but fully whole. There are bodies of officers strewn across the ground, and in their midst, Enjolras and Cosette are speaking with Valjean who holds a firearm clearly stolen from one of the dead officers. Knowing they were meeting at the alternate rendezvous, Valjean must have been guarding their exit but didn’t want to give them away by contacting them.

It’s Marius who sees them first. He perks up in delight, but then his eyes catch on Courfeyrac and he gasps, rushing over. He seems at a loss for words staring at Courfeyrac in horror, unsure where to put his hands.

“I’m okay, Marius,” Courfeyrac says, raising his functioning arm to squeeze Marius’ shoulder.

“I don’t – there’s so much blood Courfeyrac, are you _sure_?”

“It’s a new look I’m trying out. Revolution chic,” Courfeyrac says with half a grin.

Marius exhales and his shoulders loosen. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

They move together, joining the others at the Wall. The bomb is still set into the concrete, waiting. Enjolras takes a moment to look Courfeyrac over, eyes narrowed in concern even as Courfeyrac breezily waves him off. They’re _so close_ ; he can seek medical help _later_. Enjolras eventually nods and they all step back out of range before Eponine presses the detonator. The explosion rocks them, the ground shaking as the wall crumbles before them. Even in the darkness, Courfeyrac can see fields stretching outside and twinkling lights on the horizon, proof of the world outside. It’s perfect; it’s everything they’ve worked for.

And then the voice rings out behind them.

“Jean Valjean,” Inspector Javert says, moving into the light of the still smoldering wreckage, gun in hand. “I should have known I’d find you here.”

Enjolras moves to confront him, but Valjean steps up to Javert. They stand toe to toe, and there is hatred gleaming in Javert’s eyes, but also a grudging respect.

“Let them go, Javert,” Valjean says. “The city of Paris needs you to help rebuild, to help open it to the world. It’s done now; you can’t close the gate with a handful of bloody deaths. And you alone can’t kill them all.”

Javert’s eyes scan the group. He clearly identifies Enjolras as the leader from the sneer that twists across his face, and then his eyes linger on Courfeyrac and Marius, no doubt remembering that night in their apartment. Wishing he’d arrested them then. Courfeyrac can’t help himself – he has to know.

“Who told you about today?”

For a moment, Courfeyrac thinks Javert is going to refuse to answer. It’s not like he owes anything to Courfeyrac, but it’s also not like withholding the information gives him any leverage. He reaches into his pocket and tosses a watch onto the ground in front of him – a microcom.

“One of your attendees panicked this morning that his fate would match Lamarque’s if he was found to be in league with you. Told me everything he knew.”

Courfeyrac wants to ask who, but he realizes that it doesn’t matter. All of the people they had tried to inspire had let them down tonight, what’s one more?

“Let them go,” Valjean says once more. “If you need someone to take the blame, I will stay and do so gladly.”

“Papa, no!” Cosette shouts, and Valjean turns to smile gently at her, an apology in his eyes.

Javert’s eyes flick to Cosette before returning to stare at Valjean, some internal struggle playing out despite his cold features. After a few moments, he turns away in disgust.

“Go,” Javert says, walking back into the streets of Paris. “Before I change my mind.”

Courfeyrac can hardly believe it. He watches Cosette throw herself at Valjean and Marius joins them, watches Grantaire pull Enjolras into a tight embrace, burying his head in the crook of his neck and Enjolras closes his eyes and breathes him in. Watches Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta latch onto one another and not let go. Eponine spins Gavroche while Bahorel, Feuilly, and Jehan laugh together in delight. Combeferre grips Courfeyrac’s hand and draws him in for a kiss.

They _won_. The citadel’s databases have been as good as destroyed and the Wall is down. The rest of the world will know, will see the city rising up and help those still inside. Paris is free. They’re all free.

“We did it,” Courfeyrac breathes, and Enjolras turns and grins at him.

They _did_ it, but they’re all standing there, just on the edge of Paris, on the precipice of the rest of the world. Enjolras steps forward, straightening his back as he stares into the unknown. Grantaire steps up beside him, lacing their fingers together. Together, they step forward into the world outside.

Courfeyrac grins at Combeferre and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell about les mis with me over on [tumblr](https://bossuet-lesgle.tumblr.com/)


End file.
